XIV.

June 1, 1996

"Where are we going?" Shawn asks for the fifth time in this two-hour-long-and-counting car ride. He sits shotgun in Detective Holmes' unmarked vehicle, his finger tapping the outside of his thigh.

They have ventured past the city limits, absconding to a road less traveled judging by the poor quality of the rural roads and the number of farm animals he has seen so far. Cow, goat, and some horses. He thinks he has spied some sheeps as well.

Finally, just finally, the detective pulls into a gravel parking lot. There's some cars, yes, but Shawn still doesn't understand why the detective deems Shawn's choice of grey sweatpants and hoodie "suitable wear." Shawn watches the detective park the car and push down on the parking brake with his foot.

"All of your instructors say you're not challenged enough."

He blinks. All of them? Surprised, he questions, "Including the grumpy, perfectionist, and impossible-to-please tactical Instructor Caitlyn Liu?"

Detective Holmes push his sunglasses up his nose, snorting. "Good ol' Kitty will not be satisfied until you have proven your worth in the actual field. She believes that classroom can't replicate what happens in the field." He takes one step out of the car.

"You call her Kitty?" A playful tone enters Shawn's words.

Pulling his foot back into the car and shutting the driver's door, Holmes glares at Shawn. He jabs a threatening finger in Shawn's direction. "Don't get any ideas. You call her Kitty and she will replace your gun with a movie prop and watch you get shot at." A pause. "You impress her enough, and she'll let you use her nickname. After you graduate from the Academy. She's actually very nice."

"Sure," drawls Shawn, stopping his finger tapping. "I don't think nice is in her dictionary."

All he remembers are the sore muscles in his butt. He has never thought his butt could hurt.

"Let's go." Holmes finally gets out of the car, the door shutting behind him with a slam. He purposely walks up the little carved out way to the front of a farmhouse. Shawn quickly follows him, wondering what Holmes is trying to do. "She's tough on all of you because the best way to prepare the cadets is to push what they think are their limits."

Shawn takes in his words. Then his eyes flicker over his surroundings, examining the dog bowl by the door and the wind chimes hanging from the gutter.

If Holmes was like Henry Spencer, this venture into the rural areas would be some kind of test. Maybe something like entering some sort of house armed with booby traps. But Holmes is nothing like Henry Spencer. At least, that's what Shawn hopes.

Holmes knocks on the door, and a weary but smiling woman with graying hair and light blue eyes answers the door. "Hello, Anita."

"Mr. Holmes!" She throws a hug around him and pulls back. "And this is. . .?"

"Shawn Spencer," finishes Shawn, shaking her hand. He is pleasantly surprised by her firm grip.

Anita turns her attention back to Holmes, stepping back to allow Holmes and Shawn into her home. "He's in his study room. I'll bake some cookies, if you are staying for a while. Just finished baking some chicken for tomorrow's potluck."

Out of sheer habit, Shawn's critical eye scans the interior of the farm house. This place is almost isolated, the nearest neighbor maybe a half a mile away. The living room is devoid of personal effects, which strikes Shawn as slightly odd. He, with a small amount of amusement, notes there are only two hats in this room. One on the corner of the dinosaur-sized television box and a sports cap for the NY Giants stuffed under a yarn couch blanket.

Once she disappears for the kitchen, he whispers, "So why are we here?"

Holmes beckon Shawn to follow without actually answering the question. He raps a closed door two times. "Greg? It's Detective Holmes."

The door whoosh open. A panting young man with dark hair and sweaty yellow tank top grins broadly. "Mr. Holmes!"

Shawn peeks in. There's an office desk and chair in one corner of the room and a treadmill in another. A rainbow towel hangs from an installed monkey bar in the doorway leading to a bathroom. Holmes steps in, smiling at the man.

Maybe twenty or so years old, Shawn guesses.

"Shawn, this is Greg Stone. He's planning to join the Baltimore Academy next month," says Holmes, sharply cutting into Shawn's thoughts. "Greg, this is Shawn Spencer. He's currently a cadet at Baltimore. He is going to be very quiet while I run through some drills with you." Shawn doesn't miss that emphasis on quiet, knowing it's a subtle order.

In the next hour, he has Greg doing all the written practice test about police procedures, situations, critical thinking, and analysis. Quietly observing Greg and his test answers, Shawn doesn't have to be a seer or a genius to realize that Greg is going to be a by-the-book cop and a shoddy detective.

xPx

After hearing Greg thank the good detective a few times for his help, even though said detective was mostly drilling him, Shawn watches Holmes in the corner of his eyes. He has an inkling of what Holmes plans for Shawn and Greg, but the question is why this will challenge him.

Safely in the unmarked police car, Shawn acknowledges, "I know why you brought me here."

"Why?"

"You want me to tutor him."

"Correct."

"Why?"

Then Holmes cracks a smile. "Greg is said to be impossible to teach. His last tutor claimed that this kid is so dumb that he would not recognize the barrel of a gun if it is labeled with arrows pointed at it. I would tutor him myself, if I was just a detective and had less paperwork. So here you are, Shawn."

"How is this supposed to challenge me?"

"He had five tutors. Four of them graduated from the Academy and are good cops, and couldn't get a single thing through his head. Teach him, Shawn. Teach him, and you will learn."